


one kiss (you burn)

by ToAStranger



Series: Giving Myself to You (Prompt Fills) [41]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Humor, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 11:25:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5373593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles just wants to pop his cherry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one kiss (you burn)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheDamnRiddler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDamnRiddler/gifts).



> Prmpt: Peter is a male escort. Stiles makes a call to hire his services for the night, wanting to finally get his cherry popped. Peter totally doesn't like it too much & stalks Stiles. He doesn't. They just happen to keep running into each other.

"don’t you understand?  
my tongue is doused in gasoline,  
one kiss, one spark -  
you burn."

—  _let’s burn together_ , K.A.

* * *

 

“Mr. Stilinski?”

The boy looks up sharply from behind a pair of thick rimmed glasses, eyes owlish as he blinks.  “Yes?”

“I’m Peter Hale,” Peter says, and he slides into the chair opposite to him, gaze intent on the fine features his newest client.  “I believe you made an appointment with me.”

The kid—because he cannot be much older than eighteen—blinks again, licks his lips, and then nods.  “I—Yes, I did.  Um.  Hi.”

Peter smiles, teeth sharp.  “Hello.”

“I, uh… I’m not really sure how this is supposed to—“

Reaching over the café table, Peter places a warm hand over trembling ones.  “However you’d like it to go.  It is, after all, your night.”

“Right.”

It is not Peter’s first nervous client.  He doubts it will be his last.  The flush on the boy’s cheeks is lovely, though, and he finds himself gravitating towards him.  Leaning in, he lowers his voice, thumb stroking along a ridge of knuckles.

“Perhaps you should tell me your first name,” Peter says.  “It might be a good place to start.”

“Stiles,” he croaks, the tips of his ears red.  “Just call me Stiles.  Should I call you something?  Peter, Petey, Mr. Hale?”

Peter’s lips press thin, biting back amusement at the rush of words that spill over Stiles’ lips.  “Peter, please.  Unless you’d like to call me Mr. Hale?”

“Peter,” Stiles breathes, and Peter finds he quite likes the sound.  “Should we…?”

“If you’d like to.”

Those wide eyes flit over Peter.  The flush of Stiles’ cheeks is still ruddy evidence of the boy’s nervousness, of his interest.  The fingers under Peter’s heavy palm twitch.  There is a decision being made; continue and don’t look back, or stop before they can start. 

Surprisingly, Peter feels a knot of anxiety somewhere in his chest.  He wants this boy.  He wants exactly what this boy is so eager to give up or get past.  He wants this pretty young man in his bed, if only to see how far that blush goes or if his cock will turn a similar color when he’s on the precipice.  Peter doesn’t often feel this kind of desire.  His hand tightens over Stiles’.

“I would,” Stiles finally says.

Peter grins.  “Let’s go then.”

* * *

 

He takes Stiles for the first time in a hotel bed.  It’s Peter’s usual suite, and Stiles is properly impressed.  The view distracts him from his own buzzing nerves, something Peter uses to his advantage.

While Stiles is looking out over the city scape, the sky on fire as the sun sinks below the horizon, Peter strips of his coat, of his tie, and presses flush to Stiles’ back.  The boy goes stiff first, then blissfully pliant.  Peter smiles, hands big at Stiles’ hips, and he presses soft, fleeting kisses along the line of Stiles’ throat.

“Uh,” Stiles’ pulse is a flutter under Peter’s lips.  “Do you—I mean, do you do this often?  Wait, no, I don’t mean that.  Of course you do this often.  I meant the—you know, the charity case thing.”

“Charity case?” Peter frowns, one hand slipping under the hem of the cotton shirt that hangs too big, too baggy on Stiles’ shoulders.  “You’re paying for this.”

“I mean the whole I’m-a-virgin thing,” Stiles’ voice cracks, skin twitching under Peter’s fingertips.  Ticklish, then.

“No,” Peter admits.  “But I have to admit, I admire your candor.  It tells me that I need to be careful with you.”

“No, you don’t.” Stiles insists suddenly, sharply, turning about in Peter’s hold.  “Just… I just want it done.”

“And it will be,” Peter assures, hand coming up to curve along Stiles’ jaw.  “And it will be one of the best things you’ve ever experienced.  Do you understand?”

Stiles swallows, licks his lips, and Peter wants to chase that pink tongue into the heat of Stiles’ mouth.  “Yes—Yeah, I—Yes.”

“Good,” Peter nods.  “I’m going to kiss you, now.”

“Right, yeah, totally—“

Peter’s lips slant over Stiles’.  Whatever babbling Stiles has left in him is swallowed up between the press of their mouths. 

They kiss for a long time.  Stiles makes the sweetest noises, clutching at the material of Peter’s button-up.  Peter maps Stiles’ mouth, notes what makes him shudder, what makes him mewl, what makes his knees go weak.  They kiss, and Peter guides Stiles back to the bed and strips him along the way.

When he finally has him naked, finally has all of that bare skin for himself, Peter pulls back to admire.  Stiles is beautiful.  Long limbed and lithe, sparse amounts of dark hair trailing down to where he is already half hard, lips parted and kiss swollen.  Peter cannot wait to see what he looks like when he’s been completely ravaged.

He spends what is almost too long fingering Stiles open.  He watches his every reaction, watches him twitch and writhe.  He eats up the sounds he makes, the way his spine arches up when Peter angles his fingers just right, and the hungry look that settles on those fair features.  He only stops when Stiles starts begging.

“Please,” he breathes, sweat shiny and gasping.  “Please, just—fuck me, please, I want you so much.”

Peter can hardly bring himself to deny a request like that. 

He doesn’t even disrobe completely.  His shirt is a pool of white on the carpet, but his slacks cling stubbornly to his thighs.  He is hard and aching, and he barely has the forethought to roll on a condom before lining up and sinking in. 

Stiles is perfect.  He is hot and tight, slick from Peter’s careful preperations, and he moans Peter’s name like a benediction when Peter settles, seated completely in the welcoming heat of Stiles’ body.  Long fingers clutch at the pillows above Stiles’ head, and Peter stares down with lust bright eyes as he rocks just that much deeper and earns a soft keen.  Stiles trembles for him.

“ _Please, please_ ,” he whispers.

Something inside of Peter winds tight.  He withdraws and then sinks back in.  Stiles arches again, toes curling.  Peter repeats the motion, just as slow, and Stiles groans. 

“Peter, _please_.”

He takes him slow the first time.  Fucks into Stiles with a gentleness he has never shown anyone.  He drives Stiles to the edge and then over it, watches him come and catalogues the sight of Stiles’ mouth going slut slack, of his eyes rolling back.  He grits his teeth at the tantalizing clench of the boy’s body but holds steady.

When the quakes of a heady orgasm finally stop washing over Stiles, Peter fucks him more.  He goes faster this time, gaze not leaving Stiles’ face or the way the boy’s eyes tear up as he twitches from the oversensitivity of it all.  He drives in with long, deep thrusts until Stiles is hard again.  Fucks him with a fervor, with a throbbing desire to watch Stiles shatter again. 

He comes not long after Stiles finishes for a second time.  He grunts, buries in deep, and comes in thick spurts that he wishes could be filling this boy rather than the condom he’s wearing.  Stiles lays flush, lax, and panting beneath him.  When Peter withdraws, Stiles whines, and something in Peter’s chest swells with satisfaction.

They curl up together, into each other, and Stiles offers up a dopey smile before falling asleep in Peter’s arms.  Peter cannot bring himself to ask Stiles to leave the way he would if it were anyone else.

* * *

 

Peter wakes Stiles with a blow job.  Wakes him with a hot, welcome mouth, and doesn’t stop until Stiles comes sobbing Peter’s name.

He cannot get the taste of the boy out of his mouth for days.  He tries.  He finds some other dark haired, pale skinned pretty boy at a club he frequents, fucks him hard in the men’s room, and is still left wanting. 

The first time he runs into Stiles, it is an accident.  A meet-cute at the supermarket, in the dairy isle of all places.  Stiles is flustered and flailing the second he sees him.

“Peter, hi.”

“Stiles,” Peter says, tone warm, gaze warmer.  “How lovely to see you.  Do you live near here?”

He does.  Down the block, apparently.  Peter fills a thrill at knowing they live so close to one another.  They chat amicably for a while.  Stiles blushes the entire time, hiding behind his clunky glasses and oversized t-shirts.

The second time is almost an accident.  Peter is walking on the opposite side of the road when he spots Stiles amble into a bar with some puppy looking kid next to him.  The urge to follow is too strong to ignore, so he does.

He spots Stiles at a pool table, head back as he laughs, beer in one hand.  Peter watches, unabashed, and lets his lust curl in his belly, warm and waiting.  He sends over a round of drinks, and almost preens when Stiles looks over, smiles, and abandons his friend in order to come over.  Peter doesn’t even mind the lingering scent of hops when Stiles leans in, the tips of his ears pink.

“Thank you,” he says.

Peter hums.  “You’re welcome.”

Stiles is lovely.  All loose limbs and easy smiles.  He rests against the bar next to Peter.  Peter cannot help but wonder if he’d be louder, half drunk and relaxed, if Peter bent him over and fucked him.

“Having a good time with your… boyfriend, I take it?” Peter asks.

Stiles scoffs.  “Who, Scott?  He’s like a brother.”

Peter blinks once, slow and steady, giving Stiles an obvious look that lingers.  “Good.”

Stiles’ face goes pink, but he looks pleased.  He hovers for a little longer before excusing himself back to his friend’s side.  Peter watches him go, longing like an animal pacing in his chest.

* * *

 

The third and fourth time are completely purposeful.  But it isn’t Peter’s fault that Stiles frequents his favorite café.

* * *

 

The fifth time, Stiles looks at him with narrowed eyes behind thick glasses.  “You’re following me.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s okay,” Stiles tells him.  “It’s just a bit weird.”

“I’m not following you.”

Stiles snorts, arms folding over his chest as he casts a pointed look to the book in his hands.  “I can’t imagine you’re incredibly interested in breast feeding methods for new mothers.”

Peter’s jaw works.  He slides the book he’d been pretending to read back onto the shelf.  The bookstore seems suddenly too small.

“Forgive me,” Peter mutters.  “I’ve overstepped my bounds—“

“I said it was okay, didn’t I?” Stiles smiles, bright and a bit adoring.

“Is it?”

Stiles pauses, then nods, shuffling a little closer.  “Because it’s you, it is.”

Tilting his head, Peter regards him.  “Why?”

“Probably for the same reason you’re following me.”

Peter offers a sharp smile.  “Dinner then?”

“Sure,” Stiles shrugs.  “Or you could come with me back to my place, and we can order in.”

Peter’s throat is dry.  He swallows thick and steps in closer.  Stiles’ eyes are avid on his face, bright and eager.  Peter thinks this entire thing is dangerous.  This obsession and this boy.

He kind of loves it.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Shitty Chinese takeaway,” Stiles mumbles, distracted it seems, by Peter’s proximity.  “Your hands on my skin.  Your cock in my—“

Peter kisses him.  He sinks his fingers into Stiles’ hair, pulls him close, and kisses him until he feels like he’s burning.  Perhaps they both are.

“Your place, then.” Peter says after a long moment.

“My place,” Stiles nods.

* * *

 

It is much easier to stalk Stiles when he’s bedding him near nightly. 


End file.
